


Bloodletting

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abandonment, Am now putting tags just to put tags, Angst, Bandages, Bodily Fluids, Broken, Cuts, Dealing with break up, Dressing wounds, F/M, Feels... probably, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Gowns, Have a fabulous day, Hesitation, Implied/Referenced Sex, Lovesick, Making Bad Decisions, Masks, Post-Break Up, Romance, Wicked Grace, Wounds, coming to terms, drunk, heat of the moment, kiss, sick, wine bottles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan was infected. However, Elanil would never say it out loud. Acknowledging the sickness that floated within her would mean losing, and loss was avoided at all costs. She tried everything to get rid of it, but nothing ever worked. It only kept coming back again and again. The sickness was as corrupting as he was. Others weren't permitted to know the extent of her infection. To them, it was just like a wound—a healing would slowly but surely take place. Correcting them was never an option. The Inquisitor wouldn't give him the satisfaction of winning. Elanil would rather die in a pool of her own drunken stupor next to a bottle of wine.





	Bloodletting

**Author's Note:**

> It's never too late to make a pre-Trespasser one shot. But no one said that it was.
> 
> Anyway, don't let me hold you up for too long. Get to reading... if you want!

The Inquisitor was infected. However, Elanil Lavellan would never say it out loud. Acknowledging the sickness that floated within her would mean losing, and loss was avoided at all costs. She tried everything to get rid of it, but nothing ever worked. It only kept coming back again and again. The sickness was as corrupting as he was. Others weren't permitted to know the extent of her infection. To them, it was just like a wound—a healing would slowly but surely take place. Correcting them was never an option. The Inquisitor wouldn't give him the satisfaction of winning. Elanil would rather die in a pool of her own drunken stupor next to a bottle of wine.

Elanil wasn't the heaviest drinker in the Inquisition. Nor was she a heavy drinker at all. Alcohol left a bad taste in her mouth. The impairing liquid set fire to her tongue before searing down the whole length of her throat. The burns it left would sting for weeks after the fact. Not to mention the smell—it made her incredibly nauseous. Somehow, it managed to make something in the pit of her stomach rumble. What the rumbling evoked was dependent on the course of nature. More often than not, it hurtled with inescapable pain. Occasionally, it sauntered with a deep seated desire. Either way, the source of her pain and anguish always crawled out through the way it came—her mouth. To say the least, Elanil was not a drinker. Not any longer.

There was a time when she voluntarily drank. For a time—a short time—she threw her inhibitions regarding drinking away. Elanil was willing to let its flames scorch her. She was willing to suffer through the rumbling it conjured. It was at her will... because it was with him. She believed that he would always be there to remedy her burns. But she was very wrong. Now, it appears as though she made the wrong decision.

"And it all goes to Ruffles!"

"Again?"

"What can I say? I'm a  _very_ good player."

And so the Ambassador was. In fact, describing her as a good player was an understatement. Josephine was a  _magnificent_ card player. The way she played heavily reflected the way she played in real life—confidently and humbly. Her talent even exceeded that of Varric's, who claimed to be a born natural. Elanil had no doubt that either of them came out of the womb dealing cards to their mothers. The elf herself wasn't a bad card player, although, her skill was severely outmatched by the dwarf and the human.

It was a warm scene to watch. The Inquisitor and her confidants all gathered around one table, chatting and arguing like old friends. Each and every one of them basking in the glory of their recent victory. In retrospect, it wasn't that recent—but the whole world seemed to believe that it was. Nevertheless, no one would find Elanil complaining about that. The Inquisition hiked a treacherous path to get to this point. She and so many others came close to death more times than she could count—they  _deserved_ to dress themselves with triumph and respect.

Her hands relaxed on top of each other as both reposed on her lap. There would be cards in front of her if she hadn't backed out from the game. Keeping her dignity was where Elanil's priorities lied. Across from her sat the gracious Lady Ambassador. Elanil could tell how smug she was by the smirk on her face. Josephine was one of those people born without the ability to hide. As well as most of all nobles weren't—Elanil was convinced that was the reason why they needed masks. The Inquisitor learned to trust the people who never wore masks. They never tried to trick, rob, or lie. If they ever did, then anyone with a mind could see right through them. Not all of them were honest, but all of them were sheer. Sheer enough to a fault. Those were the people she should have trusted the most. Not the one's with enigmatic masks, who sat in an abyss of deceit and despair. They lied and cheated. They took and abandoned. They did it all because they could. Elanil should have known that from the beginning.

"Hey... Boss," the deep voice that sat beside her said with a slur. It almost sounded like he was trying to whisper, but belched it out instead. A warm hand decided to rest on her knee, and she let it keep its state of repose.

"And what does the Captain of the Chargers need?" Elanil tilted her head at the qunari, flashing an arch smirk. She would have let a shoulder slump, but that felt like too much. "More specifically, what does he need of  _me_?"

"...you're a tempter."

"Me? You must be mistaken, Bull."

"Boss..." the Iron Bull eyed the raven-haired woman through a hazy gaze. "Don't tell me you never drank some good ale before."

Elanil let out a fleeting chuckle. "Can't say that I have."

" _No_ _—_ you have to be kidding!" Iron Bull exclaimed. In his surprise, the hand on her knee disappeared.

"Have I ever lied to you?" Elanil responded, confirming the Bull's fears.

"C'mon, take my cup!"

"But you seem to be having plenty of fun with it."

"Doesn't matter—just do it!"

"Hmm..." Elanil prepared her final answer. "No."

"What?" Iron Bull sneered. "Do it, Boss. Just once."

_"Just once..."_

_His body sat on the corner of her bed, his front facing away from her. His fingers_ _—_ _the ones she desperately desired to intertwine with hers_ _—_ _clutched the drapery under him. He wanted to leave. She could see that. But she knew that he also wanted to stay_ _—_ _she just knew._

 _Holding a blanket over her chest, she crawled to the body on the corner of her bed. He heard her coming. Tense arms prepared to launch off. He wanted to leave, but something was stopping him. How heavy was his heart? It must have weighed more than he would admit if it made him stay. She wanted to hear it beat_ _—_ _to feel him against her._

 _The sight of his bare skin sent shivers down her spine. The closer she got, the more she was aware of her heartbeat and its tempo. It thumped with a strange beat_ _—_ _one that she's never felt before. It consumed her ears as the gap between them closed. His back seemed so far away... she didn't think she could make it. Elanil figured that he would leave before she got to touch him. Then she made it, and everything changed._

_"Just once..." Elanil whispered. She didn't like whispering, but it was for him. If it was for him, then she was willing._

_Fingertips came into contact with the bare skin of his back. She felt the alert hairs on his back. She wanted to soothe them, to tell them to accept her. He was afraid_ _—_ _always afraid_ _—_ _to be with her. It would better if he let go. It would be better if he let her through his mask. He didn't have to be trapped at the bottom of an abyss alone. Her whole hand_ _rested_ _itself on his back. She waited for his reaction._

 _She waited. It felt as if she waited for a thousand years. Then, like a dream, he let his shoulders fall and the hairs on his back were finally soothed. A wave swept over her. It caused the beating that rocked her ears to stop. What replaced it was a drumming_ _—_ _too sporadic to be a beat_ _and too_   _sweet to be noise. His back no longer faced her, and she could clearly see a face veiled with darkness. Arms wrapped around her waist then brought her closer. Enigmatic energy traveled through the heat he radiated to overwhelm her senses. For a moment, she tightened her grip on her blanket. But when he held his forehead against hers, she lost all thought. It was only them. And the only thing blocking them was a thin wall of respirations._

_"Stay with me, Solas." her voice was the rawest it has ever been. "Only for tonight."_

_That night, she heard his heartbeat. It was the heaviest beat she's ever heard._

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Varric."

"We haven't even finished the fourth game," Varric noted, cards still in his hand. Elanil took a quick gander at them, they weren't a good set.

Her feet backed away from the table before her mind could think of an answer for the dwarf. She just wanted to leave. The night was fairly young; however, the elf felt a heaviness overcome her eyes. Varric must have seen it as well, considering that he just let her go without another word. Elanil could feel the rest of the table watch her leave. Their eyes burrowed in her back in an attempt to gain some understanding. It was a truly sad way to end such a happy night.

In all honesty, the Inquisitor didn't want them to see her. She'd do anything to stop them from witnessing the walk to her quarters. They might notice how she used the same path he used. They hadn't the need to see her fall back onto her bed. The bed where she saw an unseen part of him. The bed where she heard his heartbeat. All she wanted was to be alone in her room—where no one can see her—where her mask could finally be removed.

Elanil hated alcohol. She wasn't lying about that fact. Elanil was many things, but a liar was not one. Alcohol was something she could never keep down... even when its taste was inherently sweet. Actually, she liked the taste of some wines. Some wines—only the ones he gave her—tasted like the berries she used to pick in the forest as a child. When it hit her tongue, all she could imagine was bare feet walking in a field of soft grass. He knew this. He wanted to remind her of the home she quietly missed. Elanil wondered why he ever bothered. Perhaps he knew what it was like to miss home.

Sadly, even the wine he gave her could never stay in her stomach for long. A dark flame started to grow in Elanil's heart. It appears that she can never keep down what she wanted to stay.

Holding a blanket over her chest, Elanil sprawled herself out on the bed for a purposely forgotten time. She didn't know when, but she slipped into a pale nightgown. Its folds were generously embroidered with intricate patterns of branches and leaves. Elanil was not very fond of it, the gown was too elegant for her liking. But he liked when she wore it. He said it brought out her raven colored hair. When she saw his little smile, how could she say no? After he left, she faced a dilemma of either throwing the night gown away or ripping its folds to shreds. She decided upon the latter. However, with a knife in one hand and the gown in another, she realized that she couldn't poke a hole.

Her fingers squeezed the neck of a bottle in an attempt to prepare her body for the incoming liquid. Saliva suddenly flooded her mouth as the thought of disgusting wine entered her mind. Her body told Elanil not to do it. It told her not to go any further. Nevertheless, the Elven Inquisitor was willing to go against her body for her favorite wine. It tasted like wild berries—more specifically, the berries that grew in little patches on the ground. The vision of an open plain wanted to wander its way into Elanil's imagination, but bitter memories blocked its path.

_"Inquisitor... Solas is gone."_

_Elanil knew it_ _—_ _she knew it would happen. That day_ _—_ _he gave her a look and her mouth could almost taste what would happen next. She didn't say anything to him. If he wanted to leave, then he could leave. He left her face and body bare. He let her hear the heavy pounding of his heartbeat. He... he saw under the mask that she painted on her face. But none of that seemed to matter to him. None of it ever mattered did it? Because that bastard left. The look he gave her before he disappeared tore her to shreds. What got to her weren't his dark blue eyes_ _—_ _but the emotion they expressed. He was apologetic. That bastard._

_"Inquisitor, are you alright?"_

_A hand softly rested itself on Elanil's shoulder. It was trying to soothe the hairs that stood up on the back of her neck. Elanil wouldn't let it though. She couldn't give them a hint of how bad her infection was._

_"I'm fine," the Inquisitor responded, politely shaking the hand off her shoulder. Her voice dumbfounded everyone in the room_ _—_ _even herself. It came out as crisp as the clear sky. "Stop wasting our resources looking for him. He obviously doesn't want to be found."_

A mouth's full of wine slipped down Elanil's throat without much resistance. The real resistance transpired when it came into contact with the walls of her stomach. Only then could she feel the familiar rumbling. With a small groan, Elanil led the bottle to her chest after she had taken a long sip. She purposely set the bottle on top of her heart. It was to feel her heart thump under the glass. Elanil hadn't made an effort to hear her heartbeat in a long while. The elf continued to stare at the ceiling of her quarters, lost in a multitude of thoughts.

They would all be disappointed if they saw her in such a state. The Inquisitor couldn't let that happen. She'd rather be alone than deal with their disappointment. She was drunk and she knew it. Elanil knew exactly what she was doing when she reached for the bottle. No one deserved to see the Inquisitor in such a state. Not them. Not him. And not even herself.

It was sad, honestly. Elanil desperately wanted the tears to pour out of her eyes. Her body needed to feel comforting silk as her face buried itself in a pillow. But she wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Elanil would rather die broken than let him win. He would never make her cry. Tears are the one thing that he couldn't infect her with. And Elgar'nan knows how much he has infected her with already. Elanil detested holding back her tears—it gave her a feeling worse than any rumbling could give her. Instead of withering in her abyss, the elf decided to get drunk. That's all to it.

Except for her drunk wasn't the normal kind of drunk. Most people get drink to get drunk. Iron Bull was one of those people, drinking was never a problem for him. Alcohol mixed well with him, and it never come out from the way it came. It was different for Elanil, however. Alcohol always left her body through the path it entered. No—drinking has never been about getting drunk to her. There was always an underlying factor. This time, she drank to get sick. She drank knowing that it would slither back up her throat. Elanil had to get rid the source of her pain and anguish somehow.

This was the way to do it—to purge herself of everything he had infected her with.

He was gone. He left her and everything they had built behind. But it didn't feel that way. Elanil couldn't shake the feeling that... that he was still there. Although he was gone, she could still see him. She saw him in the halls he walked with quiet footsteps. She saw him on the pillow his head lain upon on sparse mornings. She even saw him in the warm hands that belong to everyone else.

He was gone, but what he left behind forever existed in her body and mind. She was the tomb his remains were piled into after he decided to tread his own path. She felt him in  _everything_. Nothing was safe from the touch of his memory. Her body was not excluded from this. Elanil could feel him in every part of her existence. Her bones, her skin, her mind—everything he touched left a permanent mark.

And her blood—her  _blood_ _—_ was riddled with more than just touch. His memory, his presence, and his love all swam in the dark red substance that flowed through her veins. By reaching every part of her being, her blood ensured that neither forgiveness nor continuation is possible. He left her infected with his remains, knowing very well that his disease was incurable.

Multiple clangs tore Elanil's attention from the ceiling to her dangling arm. With the bottle still in hand, her arm protruded from the side of her bed. The clanging came from the repeated motion of dumping the bottle against the bed frame. She had robbed the bottle of its contents a while back.

"...What are you doing?" the elf murmured to an unseen presence in the room. She would answer her question, if only she knew the answer.

Hoisting her body up, Elanil gave a long and aching sigh. Her tongue came into immediate contact with a flood of warm saliva. The rumbling in her stomach finally began to translate into nausea. It was going to happen, she could feel it. Her purging was about to begin. She was ready to do it—all she wanted was for him to leave her. When the first gag hit her mouth, an overwhelming repentance washed over Elanil. It took control of her actions in a quick flash. Without much thought, she coerced her nausea to lessen with generous gulps of air.

Elanil wasn't ready. That's what she hated the most about herself.

She sat on the side of her bed, dangling feet barely touching the floor. Elanil held the bottle of her favorite wine on her lap. It was as empty as can be, the Inquisitor had rendered it useless. The bottle was bare, only a hallow husk of what it used to be. Elanil considered setting it aside to fall asleep. Slumber never seemed appetizing until she was drunk. Then deliberation thwarted her short lived plans of sleep. It was too hard to set the bottle aside. As was each and every thing that reminded her of him.

It was comedic. Even though he fucking left her, he still controls her actions like a puppeteer. It wasn't comedic—it was sick. She was  _sick_. Sick in the mind, sick in the soul, and sick in every crevice of her being. He did this to her—she let him do this to her. Why couldn't she move on?

"Damn it all..." Elanil muttered. Her hands tightened their grip on the bottle. Drunk and sick, the elf felt a sudden urge. It was truly an urge only her drunkard state could feel.

"Dammit!"

Lost in a hot flash, Elanil could not recall her actions. She merely stood by her bed with humid and heavy breaths coming out of her mouth. Her shoulders were tense and rigid, nothing could make them slump. Then the sound of glass crashing onto the floor brought her out of the hot flash.

_Two wine glasses sat on the table, sparkling from the light of a blue flame. Elanil watched as he approached the table with a bottle in tow. He wasn't aware of her distaste for alcohol; neither did she ever want him to be aware._

_"We don't have to drink the same wine every time, Solas."_

_His gaze traveled from the wine glasses to Elanil's dark eyes. Suddenly, she felt the need to look somewhere else. She never felt that need._

_"Isn't this your favorite wine, Inquisitor?" He replied. His blue eyes were mesmerizing._

_"...Yes."_

_"Then we_   _will_ _be drinking this tonight," his voice gave her goosebumps, "I owe you that much."_

Remorse wrapped its arms around her when Elanil realized what she had done. Shattered glass riddled the floor, big and small pieces alike. The wine bottle... it was broken. She broke it. Water tried to escape the corners of her eyes, but she held them in. Her feet began to make their way up to the main body of shattered glass. Looking at the glints that came from the floor, Elanil could tell that glass was everywhere. The Inquisitor proceeded to kneel down.

Deep breaths were the key to ignore some pain. Mindless was never a good thing to be, but this moment was made to be mindless. Elanil reached out to the glass with both hands. There was not even a sliver of hesitation as her hands touched sharp edges. It hurt—that much was obvious to her. She could feel the opening of many slits on the inside of each of her palms. Her eyes weren't focused on her hands, they focused on each piece of glass on the floor.

Elanil gathered the glass and pushed them into a single pile. It would be easier to pick up in the morning. She'll have to make an excuse about why a wine glass broke in her room. They know she doesn't drink, so they'll be very confused. The Inquisitor would come up with something believable—like she randomly felt the urge to drink and the bottle slipped out of her hand. That wasn't too far from the truth. However, she didn't know she'd explain the cuts on her hands.

The Inquisitor continued to kneel on the floor, her eyes now focusing on a wall. The glass was already situated in a pile, but it would hurt too much to stand up. The stinging coming from her hand would turn into burning with the slightest move.

Blood.

She could feel it seeping from her cuts onto the white nightgown. Elanil wouldn't dare to look at her bloodied hands. She would do something to stop herself from bleeding if she saw them. Elanil couldn't allow that—not right now. She'd rather wait until her veins run dry. That way, at least, her disease would bleed itself out of her body. The source of her pain and anguish was finally being released. Except, for some reason, she couldn't think of it as her pain and anguish. She could only think of it as his memory and presence. His touch, his love, his  _everything_ was leaving her body. That fact hit her back like a venom coated arrow.

In a single brisk motion, Elanil averted her gaze to her lower half.

 _The first thing her eyes met was bandages wrapped around each of her hands. They were old_ _—_ _and their age definitely showed in the form of dried blood stains. The knife that sliced her was bent on drawing blood. Unfortunately, it had succeeded. Fortunately, it was left lifeless in the hands of_ _the dead_   _._

_"You should change your bandages."_

_Elanil looked up to see his blue eyes staring back at her. A coy smile stretched across her face as he blinked at her. He was not amused to see her smirk._

_"That depends." she slightly tilted her head. "Are you going to change them?"_

_His eyes narrowed at her response. He never did like the tone she would take with him. "I_   _am_ _certain that you can do it yourself, Inquisitor."_

_"Of course... but I'd rather have someone of your caliber, Solas," Elanil widened her smile, hoping it would entice him._

_After flashing the Inquisitor his frustrated eyes, the mage fixed his gaze on the wall behind her. Elanil noticed how often he did this. He would always look at the wall in silence for a few moments. It was almost like he was deliberating or pondering something. This pestered her to no end_ _—_ _his silence was torture. She preferred to have an answer sooner_ _rather_ _than later. The way his blue eyes would dim and flicker made her even more annoyed._

_"You're the most impossible woman I've ever met..." he finally said, holding out his hands to her._

_"Well, Solas..." Elanil gladly laid her hands on top his. She had to be quick with her actions. There was no telling when he would change his mind. "Impossibility is an alluring trait."_

_"I'm very intrigued to hear your reasoning behind that," he responded, wasting no time in unwrapping the bandages._

_"It's very common to want what we can't have," Elanil replied, a bit hoarse_.  _It was hard to keep her tone while he was touching her._

_A response to her reasoning never came. The only thing she heard from his direction was a quiet, almost inaudible, sigh. Elanil would have been more concerned about it if it wasn't for his hands. The mage had nimble fingers, they worked with sheer meticulousness. Seeing them removing her old bandages and dressing her hands with new ones only cemented his nimbleness. She nearly was sent into a trance by just watching him work. By the end of it, heat burned the tips of Elanil's ears._

_The moment was coming to a close_ _—_ _she could tell by his slowing speed. A part of her died with that realization. He was touching her, bare skin to bare skin without any of his normal hesitation. Elanil couldn't describe the desire she felt to touch him. To want so desperately was new to her. No one was ever able to catch her attention like he had. She wanted more of him... and the thought of more gave her an incredible coyness._

_"I'm finished, Inquisitor..." he spoke. The mage was careful not to leave evidence of disappointment in his voice. However, the slight frown he assumed sparked the same idea. He was a reserved person, always keeping himself locked inside. It served to be vigilant with people like him. Elanil could see what he truly felt, even when he himself was blind to it._

_Although he was finished, his bare hands remained under hers. He was reluctant to let her go; she could determine his wants by looking at his eyes. But he was going to let go_ _—_ _like he always did. His actions never rested well in Elanil's mind. He ran away from what he wanted. She wholeheartedly believed that an existence like his was a torturous one. The thought of his suffering never brought her anything close to satisfaction._

_"Solas," Elanil breathed, her hands encasing his fingers._

_"This..." the mage's frown intensified. "This is unjust."_

_"What does that have to do with this?"_

_"...You wouldn't want to know."_

_He tried to retract his hands, but Elanil held onto them with a vigor. "Just" had nothing to do with this. "Just" was only an excuse that enabled him to run away. Not this time—_ _she waited too long._

 _Solas was more than surprised when it happened. He didn't expect it_ _—_ _Elanil didn't expect it either, and she was the one who did it. His lips gave quick quivers as hers further pushed into him. He was quite restrained... everything about him was stiff. Although his lips somewhat against her, he wasn't doing anything. She made quick work in trying to coax him to let go. All he needed was two hands digging their nails into his back. With only that to coerce him, Solas let his hands wrap around her waist. His only response to the shiver she gave was to move his lips as feverishly as hers._

_She wanted him. He wanted her. The feeling was heavy._

Elanil felt heavy as she lain on top of the bed. Her eyes were heavy, her arms were heavy, her body was heavy. In her imagination, the mattress threatened to collapse beneath her. Her hands and feet were tangled between the folds of her night gown. Elanil had no idea how to stop the bleeding, so she wrapped her wounds with her clothes. They were still bleeding, and she reckoned it wouldn't stop for a long time. The pain of her cuts finally caught up to her. It was only on her bed that she felt their full furry. Instead of staring at the ceiling or a wall, Elanil's eyes remained on her wrapped hands.

Her whole body shivered at the sight of dark red spots on her night gown. Perhaps... letting herself lose was the only path to a remedy. He'd have the satisfaction of winning the battle, but she'd have the satisfaction of winning the war. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you!


End file.
